Savéracité
by HoodedSpellcaster
Summary: The Plague hovered in the background of the everyday life. The street rat Iomhar makes the best mistake of her life when she finds her sanctuary from the company of Christiana, the witch. The disease strikes Iomhar in 1380 can Christiana keep her from falling to her death?


**Round 11 – All Through The Years**

YEAR: 1380

CHASER 3: write about a day someone divorces or dies

MY PROMPTS: 2. (word) crimson) / 3. (poem) Indeed Indeed I Cannot Tell, Henry David Thoreau / 11. (restriction) no word "said"

Sa véracité = in veracity; truthfulness

Summary: The Plague hovered in the background of the everyday life. The street rat Iomhar makes the best mistake of her life when she finds her sanctuary from the company of Christiana, the witch. The disease strikes Iomhar in 1380 can Christiana keep her from falling to her death?

* * *

'_Indeed indeed, I cannot tell,_

_Though I ponder on it well,_

_Which were easier to state,_

_All my love or all my hate.__'_

_– _from the poem 'Indeed Indeed I Cannot Tell' by Henry David Thoreau

* * *

"_If I'd known it'd be this hellish, I'd have never chosen this life…"_

* * *

**Savéracité**

The city was made of dead ends.

I sat down on the cobbled street, holding tightly the piece of bread I had managed to obtain earlier. It hadn't been easy. It's _never_ easy. But it fills stomach for a moment and that should be enough.

"Tch. Not even freshly baked."

But it's never enough. The hunger always returns. I scoffed down the bread, almost choking on it and spewing it out in the process. I had let the hunger overpower me once again. I grimaced, ashamed, and my brows knitted together, my lower lip jutting out. The aftertaste wasn't something I liked. But it reminded me of my sorry state. If I had now thrown up, I would have been even hungrier a moment after.

Born was I into the lowest class of peasants, ranked down on the social ladder. I laughed dryly, letting the back of my head hit the wall behind me.

Beggars can't be choosers.

At least I hadn't gotten caught.

How do people even live through the times like this? Why don't we just die away? I glanced up; the sun was still high on the sky. Time flows, that's what I've been told. People die every day but the sun still shines and time passes on. We have no control over those things; only God has. I was sick from time to time, scared that I'll die in my sleep, afraid I won't live to see the next morning. Pathetically clinging on this hellish life.

I reluctantly recalled my mother. Not her face or anything like that. Just a glimpse of my childhood. I didn't really like thinking about my past. Here you live only to see the next day. Everything else is unconventional. I had even stopped counting the years of my age a long ago. Years come in a blur, there's no reason to count them. I looked at my hands and smirked. Too big and calloused for a girl to have. For some reason I couldn't have been born with small hands and effeminate looks like Mary from the pub. Even my mother had had small hands.

She was dead by now, I couldn't remember why exactly. If I think about it must have been some illness; I heard men on the street speak about it. About the disease God had sent upon us. Maybe she had sinned then.

After all, she had had a daughter like me.

I clenched my fists, knuckles slowly turning white. My breathing was getting ragged, I shouldn't be thinking this. I hated this feeling; feeling of not being in control, feeling of breaking under the invisible pressure. I shielded my hands in terror. This wasn't regular but it wasn't anything new either. It just was a sign that God truly hated me.

With these hands I was able to make things happen.

Weird things.

_Dangerous_ things.

I blinked back the tears, gasping for air. Mother's death wasn't because of me. I just had been born different. I wasn't an abomination. I just had been born different. I wasn't an abomination…

I vomited all over the cobble stones.

* * *

I liked the time of the year when leaves fell down. I liked the rain, and the warm colours, and more than anything I was looking forward to harvesting. Harvesting meant more to eat. I rarely went outside the city as there is nothing but fields, forests, and never ending roads. 'If you can't eat it, don't bother to get it', that's what I thought until I saw them.

The apple trees.

The branches were weighed down by the gorgeous, full red fruits. I swallowed the drool forming in my mouth and my stomach made a gurgling sound, strengthening the idea in my mind. And I knew it was a bad idea to begin with. But I couldn't resist. I climbed over the tile wall surrounding the garden and the house.

The sweet taste filled my mouth as I bit down on the apple I had picked straight from the tree. I didn't even remember how good they could be. So I ate one.

And another.

And one more.

I didn't even think the consequences of getting caught. I knew there wouldn't be a fair trial. The people of the Town Hall weren't especially tolerable when it came to beggars, street rats, and thieves. And I happened to fit in all of the three categories.

"Hey, you!"

Oh, for the love of God and sweet baby Jesus I was in a deep, deep trouble.

* * *

The weirdly dressed man – with a pointed hat and a red and purple mottled robe he couldn't be called anything else than weirdly dressed – had forcibly taken me inside the house. I had been too afraid to scream or oppose him. I was sure it would be the end of me.

A life worth for three apples.

But it turned out to be a very different situation, and not a life and death situation at all. Not immediately at least.

I traced the surface of the water with my fingers. The water in the tub was still warm. It was… exciting. I stripped my worn clothes on the floor and cautiously stepped in. The water smelled good. Flowery and sweet. It was relaxing, dwelling on the water but the knock from the door startled me.

"The mistress wants to meet you."

The new clothes were left on the stair and they expected me to wear them. It made me uncomfortable. I was soon wearing the fanciest clothes I had ever seen, and it wasn't an exaggeration. I had never seen, not to mention touched, a fabric like the one that had been used for the dress. The finest silk covered up my spindly, gaunt body, and hid the bones that were sticking out in a disgusting manner. I wasn't proud of my appearance, not even in these borrowed clothes

There was another knock and the man who had half-forced me to the house stood there, as weirdly dressed as earlier. He walked me through the corridors and brought me to the door, not emitting a word. He raised a brow quizzically when I stared at the door.

The truth was that I was scared to enter.

And face the mistress.

* * *

I had met mistresses before on the street, passing me like I'm nothing but the filth on the bottom of their shoes. It wasn't very far away from the reality.

But in the back of the room – near the window, basking in the glow of the evening sun – sat an angel. She wasn't looking at me but I was certainly, blatantly,_ staring_ at her. Blonde hair, long and shiny, fell on her tiny shoulders. Her dress was fancier than the one I was wearing; it was leaf-green coloured and adored the curves of her petite body.

I shifted and the floorboard creaked underneath and she flinched before turning her eyes away from the window. The shock, the surprise, in her face vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Her eyes, beautiful and vivid blue eyes, shone on a pretty face. Her skin was pale as porcelain, apart from her cheeks which were flushed pink.

I forced my gaping mouth to shut. She sat up and I got the first look of how short she actually was. I was pinned to the spot where I was standing. Her lips curled into a sweet smile and she opened her mouth.

"Nice to meet _you_."

The voice that came from her mouth was like no other sound I had heard. It was hard to describe – it was bright and timid at the same time, like the first rays of morning sun. She looked at me, dead in the eye, and it was suddenly difficult to breath.

She was _different_.

Her beauty wasn't part of this world; it was a cover-up, a façade. And I saw right through it, straight to the core. Her angelic look didn't match with what I saw. What I saw was fear. What I saw was _myself_.

Graciously she lifted her both hands, placing them on my cheeks. Her touch was tender, hesitant even. My mouth was dry and swallowing didn't help at all. It took all my willpower to shake her hands away and clumsily retreat to the door.

It was locked. I hadn't _locked_ it.

"What are you…?" I barely managed to stutter the words out.

Her smile was inevitable to avoid looking at but it wasn't like the smile I had seen on her face earlier. It didn't reach her eyes. She had pulled a crooked stick from the pleat of her dress. She held it tight, an unreadable eyes staring up at me.

"I am a witch."

I stared back at her. I had heard that word, and it didn't mean anything good. It made me want to run, to hide, and to be far away from her. But my knees were weak and gave up under me, making me collapse on my hands and knees. I didn't want to lose the lunch I had earlier devoured though my stomach was atrociously knotting itself up. She kneeled down a pitying look in her eyes.

"And I know you're like me. I can help you."

She ran her fingers through my hair. It was intimidating yet very distracting. And though I wouldn't want to admit it, the act was oddly soothing.

"I just want you to promise you'll never leave."

I opened my mouth to object but nothing came out.

"Promise me", she pressed, almost begging. "You'll never feel hunger again. No more living on the streets. So please…"

* * *

I had started counting years again. I had now counted for three years. Christiana, the mistress of the house, thinks I'm at least on my late twenties or early thirties. She is much older but the façade of young girl she likes is always covering her real age. She claims she's older than the men of the church. I find it hard to believe.

The first year had been the worst; all the shouting and arguments between me and Christiana. I had hated her and everything she did. It had taken me long enough to start trusting her and believing her comforting words whenever I broke under the pressure. I don't break because of God, she told me. I break because I had neglected my powers, my _magic_, for a long time. She called them a gift but I despised them.

But she could make so beautiful things happen with her magic.

She explained things the way I could understand. She gave me a stick, a _wand_, of my own. It's made of wood of an apple tree, that she told but I can't tell for sure. A wand made controlling powers easier and I didn't break down as often as I had done earlier. My powers didn't make me feel so sick anymore because she helped me to free them and not to conceal them like I had been used to do.

"Those who meddle with magic without understanding the harm they can cause are worse than those who don't understand it at all." Her voice was soft. "You need to learn."

It was better life than the one I'd been living most of my life. And somehow, it wasn't anymore just that she helped me but I had begun helping her as well.

_Healing _her, as she had it expressed.

"Iomhar." She tenderly kissed my bony shoulders, her petite hands running through my coarse dark hair. "I love them. Your freckles."

I hummed, holding my hands on her waist, my thumbs drawing circles on her soft skin. I should have found what we did appalling, disturbing at least, and very wrong. It was sinning against God, we would be severely punished if we ever got caught, but I couldn't bring myself to stop and run away. My life had been drawn in Hell pictures all along. If I for once in my life was glad, had anyone a right to take my happiness away from me?

I was drawn to Christiana.

To her skin, to her touch, and to her magic.

I was drawn to only person who cared about me for who I was. For her I wasn't abomination.

And I loved her.

* * *

I coughed. The crimson blood droplets stained the handkerchief I had gotten from Christiana. Where the illness had come from I didn't know. There were others in the city with the same symptoms, so I had heard. And it will only get worse.

It had something to with my lungs. The breathing had become painful, my throat tight and chest heavy. Soon I hadn't the strength to get up from my bed anymore. My coughing fits were painful for me but they also took great toll on Christiana even though the disease hadn't gotten her. She didn't want to show her worry but it shone through her act. Her beautiful blonde hair was greying and falling limply on her shoulders.

She didn't smile anymore. She did her best; she collected herbs and plants and made them into different liquids and made me either sniff or drink them. Nothing had helped.

I hated like seeing her like that; helpless to do anything. It hurt more than raw throat after screaming and vomiting blood.

After three days of lying in the bed I couldn't even hold my wand anymore. I let out a dry chuckle and made my chest tighten. I was stripped of my wand, stripped of my pride. Christiana rarely left from the room expect to get more of the potions she had made to make me feel better. She had managed to make something to dull the most of the pain but the disease was there to stay.

I was hardly conscious when she stroked my cheek, her fingers running on my freckles. I didn't even like my freckles but she did. She loved them. She loved _me_.

I smiled a little. These three years had been a blessing.

* * *

"_I lied… Living like that wasn't too bad…"_

* * *

Christiana shook her head, looking at the covered body of a young witch. Her eyes were dulled by sadness, red-trimmed by crying overnight. She was still holding the now cold hand,unwilling – _unable_ – to let go. Her laughter was no longer a bright and cheerful sound it had once been.

"Remember that time you promised you'd never leave, then left?"

She tightened her grip of Iomhar's hand and tears began slowly streaming from her eyes. She swallowed and dried them off with her free hand.

"It'd be nice if I could come with…"

Her sentence was cut down by a coughing fit. The crimson droplets coloured her palm, spreading all over it and dripping to her lap.

And in all veracity she smiled as well.

* * *

A/N: Ah, the tragedy. Year 1380 was a pain to write. The Witch Hunts became thing in the 15th century and later so I couldn't use that and I was so lost for a while. Then I came across 'The Black Death' (and the other plague epidemics) and the actual idea began to form.

And then BOOM! FEMSLASH! …slight femslash but femslash nevertheless.

And homosexual relationships weren't a new thing in the 14th century. There was even a Wikipedia article about 'Homosexuality in medieval Europe'.

'The Black Death' happened between the years 1347-1352. Christiana's guess of Iomhar's age wasn't actually far from the truth – Iomhar was around 30 (maybe even 35) years in 1380. Christiana was most likely born in the beginning of the 14th century to an old magical family and she attended Hogwarts in her youth unlike Iomhar who was clearly from a muggle family and didn't know about Hogwarts. Iomhar is actually an old Scottish (and Irish) name. Me likey. Oh, and they both died because of the Pneumonic plague.

After all, I started to like this round. This is currently my longest entry during the competition (it was actually longer but I cut it a little shorter; that's why Thomas the weirdly dressed wizard didn't make appearance later). I'm damn proud of myself.

Magpie power! Hoddie out.


End file.
